Jack lay prone on the floor. Every drawer in his dresser was open.
“I can’t find any shorts,” he said.
I closed a few drawers and dug through the bottom one, finding his gym shorts from the seventh grade.
I had brought up a pair of my own running shorts as a suggestion. That didn’t go over well. We are going to have to take him shopping for more gear this week.
A week or so ago, Jack texted me during the day:
I want to run a half marathon.
Not today, honey, I texted back. Put your phone away in class.
But he was serious.
Jack’s been involved in a triathlon training club at our local Y for about a year, not because he necessarily wants to be in a triathlon, but because he’s tired of swim team. Tri-Club gives him variety, and it’s about the most laid back athletic team or club there is from a parental standpoint. No schlepping raffle tickets, or chocolate bars to raise money, no team parties or uniforms, no trophies, no need to sit through a six hour referee clinic, don goofy pads and a mask and steel myself to be yelled at by parents. No cajoling or bribing anyone to wear an athletic cup.
You GUYS, March is National Craft Month! It’s time to roam the aisles of Hobby Lobby looking for stuff to cut out, hot glue, toll paint, shellac, stuff with potpourri and stick on a shelf.
You may sense some sarcasm, particularly if we’ve become acquainted any time in the past decade.
You may know I wear mostly black, khaki or grey, because with so much going on I get overwhelmed by choices. That’s not an indicator of someone with a lot of bandwidth for crafts. I once had most of our house painted in colors the painter picked out based on what more creative people were having him do. I now can proudly say that my walls resemble those of some of the most stylish homes in the ‘burbs.
There are days my dalliance into social media causes heartburn. Other days it knocks me flat. Sunday was such a day, when I met ten year-old Lula in the waning moments of her life.
A friend had posted a prayer request for Lula and her family.
This was not my battle, nor my child. It was not a story in any way related to me.
I’m a mom, though, so her story yanked me in.
…this from a Facebook friend, sharing a raw moment after dropping her child off at kindergarten…
…and being mistaken for the little girl’s aunt...
“Ouch, that was a tough one,” she said, “straight through the heart.”
We’ve all been there. Conscientious parents, whatever their professional situation, get to know that bastard, Guilt, pretty well.
This morning when Jack was tying his shoes, it looked like he was doing some sort of macramé project. He was folding laces over each other and pulling and tucking. It didn’t look like the kind of shoe tying I remember teaching him, and it took forever.
“Jack, are you ready buddy? We talked about this. We’re going to be late,” Mike said.
Outside it was snowing, which might mean slippery roads and a slower drive than normal. At the rate it was taking Jack to tie his sneakers, he would miss his carpool, and Mike would be faced with an unscheduled hour-long commute.
“It’s probably best to leave Jack alone for a little while,” I hear Colin tell his dad in the other room. “He’s in a pretty bad mood. I bugged him just a little bit and he picked me up and threw me.”
Although not encouraged, these kinds of demonstrations of Hulk-like strength are not terribly uncommon around here. Otherwise, the boys generally get along. We’ve talked to them – and will likely continue to do so ad nauseam – about the virtues of managing their actions, particularly when they’re feeling angry or frustrated or humiliated, and want to lash out.
We’re driving somewhere a couple weeks ago, all of us together, when there’s an NPR story about how parents are generally less happy than non-parents.
As usual, I’m daydreaming during most of the article until it dawns on me what they’re talking about and I look at Mike. He’s driving, and has probably been daydreaming too, and appears to be becoming aware of the subject matter at about the same time.
“Why do you want to go on exchange?” I ask my kid.
“Well, I like to travel, and I’m into learning new things.”
Good answer. Just the night before, Jack had told us he would be interested in going on exchange his junior year in high school. Now, I’m putting him through a mock interview.
We’re in McCall, the opening weekend of the little town’s winter carnival. Mike and I are part of a committee shepherding a gaggle of students in the Rotary exchange program. The group includes ‘inbound’ students from countries across the world, and soon to be ‘outbound’ students from counties across southern Idaho – sort of a foreign exchange cavalcade.
My kid has been telling me for about a week about some study that shows video games might not be bad for you.
“Did Mario Brothers commission it?” Mike asks, but Jack can’t remember his source. I’m thinking it’s probably something he heard from school or else he’d be dragging us over to the computer screen to read whatever it is right now.
I humor him and Google: video games may not be bad for you and up pop a few articles. None of the sources is BuzzFeed; a check in the plus category for the efficacy of the study from an online research perspective.
